


The Secret Language of Aurors

by Delphi



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Casual Sex, First Time, M/M, Power Dynamics, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-23
Updated: 2005-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sparring practice at the Ministry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secret Language of Aurors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irr4tional](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=irr4tional).



> Written for the 2005 run of HP Valensmut on LJ.

It isn't his imagination, and it isn't wishful thinking. That young man is most definitely asking for it.

Alastor knows the signs. Hell, he practically invented them, back in the day when decent folk didn't even say the word. Back when the department learned to look the other way so long as it was kept quiet—kept in the family, so to speak.

It's all in the body. Little glances across the room. A long, slow stretch from head to toe. Swaggering up to duel with a stance that's all hips.

And if it's taken Alastor long enough to see it, that's only because it's been a good long while since those sorts of looks have been turned his way. Put on a few years, lose an eye and a leg, they're bound to stop coming. It seems, however, that the locker room is still reluctant to let a good reputation die, because the gleam in those eyes is an invitation if ever he's seen one. An invitation he'd have to be an idiot to turn down.

Kingsley Shacklebolt. Tall and dark, six and some feet and fifteen stone of fit young man. Twenty-seven years old. Second in his class out of Hogwarts and first in his training. He's read his file—this is the wunderkind who finally brought in Simion Smythe, after all—and young Kingsley might be working under Napps for now, but Alastor would wager it won't be two years before he's a free agent. Going by his records, he's just about the last man on the payroll who needs a refresher course in duelling, which had left Alastor impressed when he showed up on his day off anyway.

He's even more impressed now that he's seen him in action.

It's two hours in and they've run through this rotation a half-dozen times. The whole of the class is chewing on their last nerve, save for Shacklebolt, who's propping up the far wall with a faint smile on his lips. Alastor has already lost half the attention of the younger ones, their focus on the door and the tea break that should have come a half-hour ago. The rest, the ones old enough to know better, are letting themselves get sloppy; the trio of them huddle impatiently in the far corner where the weight sets and punching bags have been pushed back, scuffing the hardwood floor with the toes of their boots, one hand on their wands.

The practice hall is spread thick with the sound of exhausted breathing, the faded yellow walls bleeding from too much body heat and not enough fresh air. Every man and woman is bruised from a hard fall or two and dripping with sweat, expecting him to call it a day.

He claps his hands together. "Fifteen minutes on the clock, and let's see if we can't get it right this time—every man for himself!"

There's hardly a pause before everyone shuffles back to their places around the wide circle of chipped paint in the centre of the room. No one is quite stupid enough to mutter or groan, but his ears prick up at a weary sigh. He marks the perpetrator's face as one to remember.

"One—two—go!"

No sooner are the words out of his mouth than the room erupts in hex-fire, a blast of stunning charms criss-crossing from one wall to the next, colliding with shields, or plaster, or flesh. Two men hit the floor in practically as many seconds, one with a shout, but it takes a third for Alastor to trace the shots back to the same wand.

His eye spins to the right, knowing instinctively where to look. And as he watches, Shacklebolt takes down all seven in a graceful, deadly spiral of spells that's a thing of beauty to behold.

In not half a minute, they're the only two left on their feet.

Well. That takes care of that.

The hall falls dead silent for a long moment, save for the ticking of a second hand. Then someone gives a snort—Wickham, laughing as she shakes herself back to her senses and picks herself up off the floor. A few others join her, rueful, looking to an almost-apologetic Shacklebolt with new appreciation.

Alastor gives the young man a nod. "Good speed."

Quite satisfied when Shacklebolt answers with a small deferring bow.

To the rest: "Congratulations, you're all dead—you think on that while you're off stuffing your faces."

They're bright enough to take their cue, at least, the lot of them filing out in an instant with only one or two having the decency to look properly contrite. Podmore brings up the rear, still dusting off his trousers. He pauses just into the corridor, a quirk to his lips as he catches Alastor's eye&amp;mashlocking the door on his way out, missing Alastor's glare.

Shacklebolt makes no move to join his fellows, something that quashes that doubting little voice in the back of Alastor's mind. His expression is too innocent to be genuine as his eyes move slowly down Alastor's body.

Alastor takes a step towards him, meeting his sudden feint to the left nearly in tandem—to the right just as quickly, his wand falling into his hand. His heartbeat picks up.

Shacklebolt's wand slowly lowers.

He steps forward again. Shacklebolt steps back. Alastor grins, his blood hot and eagerly rushing to all the right places. He reads the lines of Shacklebolt's body like a book: pride and lust and an admirable shade of wariness. His gaze lingers on the places you touch to pleasure a man, the places you touch to kill one.

He only makes it half a step more before Shacklebolt's wand snaps up, the hard tip poking into his chest.

Alastor raises an eyebrow. Oh, it's to be like that, is it? "I'd put that down if I were you, lad."

The wand doesn't so much as waver, and Shacklebolt doesn't budge, a patient smile fixed to his lips.

Alastor pauses.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

Shacklebolt lunges, barely a twitch having betrayed him as he whips out a solid stunner that Alastor should have caught long before it knocks him flat on his arse. He makes a grab for Shacklebolt's leg as he goes down, yanking as hard as he can and barking a satisfied laugh as the young man hits the floor beside him.

Chasing after his wits and his breath, he rolls swiftly onto his stomach, getting his good foot under him and lurching up. Shacklebolt scrambles, making it to his feet just an instant before Alastor.

Fast, but not nearly fast enough.

The pair of them crash back to the floor in a flurry of elbows and knees. Alastor throws himself on top and pins Shacklebolt in a hold the whelp would have to break bones to get out of. And still he finds himself fought every step of the way, Shacklebolt thrashing like a landed fish as Alastor wedges his knees apart with one of his own, leaning down heavily on him to take the pressure off his bad leg.

Shacklebolt stills.

Alastor presses down harder, trying to calm his breathing as he gazes his fill. He likes this one. Likes him quite a bit. All that smooth, dark skin, with one sharp cheekbone showing—could cut yourself on one of those. All heaving breathing and trapped arms, and an almond-shaped eye peering up heavy-lidded at him. Handsome as anything, that little play of reluctance making him all the sweeter.

He leans in slowly, brushing his cheek against Shacklebolt's, rough against smooth. Breathing in the salt-sweat of him and a musky scent that's deeper than his own. Nudging until that proud chin tips up, then biting, prompting a gasp. The sound wakes his body up, recalling how long it's been since he's had his hands on another man. His mouth slides up, closing around a pierced earlobe, toying with the little gold ring.

Shacklebolt gives a shiver, the fight seeming to ease slowly out of him. A subtle tilt of his head invites further attention.

"Now..." He eases up onto his hands, prodding Shacklebolt to roll over like a good lad.

Shacklebolt obeys as quickly as he should, his hand pressing between Alastor's legs the moment he's on his back—a good bit broader than any other Alastor has felt there, making his arms tremble a little in a way they shouldn't as he holds his body up, leaving plenty of room for it to stroke him, worked until he's precariously close to overwhelmed.

He swoops down in a press-up, growling softly in Shacklebolt's ear. "You're going to suck my cock."

The hand abruptly pauses but doesn't quite stop.

"Here?" The first word out of him all day.

"Yes, here."

"You don't think anybody will...?"

"You won't be interrupted." It's a slow Sunday, and everyone who's not in the field has cleared out for lunch. The hall is soundproofed, and locked, and just about the best place for a tryst in the whole of the Ministry.

He rears up, pushing himself back to sit on his heel, his other leg stretched out before him. He tugs at Shacklebolt's shirt. "Off with it."

There's a soft breath of a laugh as Shacklebolt stands and steps back so that he's not quite looming. His top-robe falls to the floor while he takes his sweet time with his boots and socks, apparently having decided to obey him to the letter.

Alastor certainly isn't complaining, watching as the shirt—soaked through with sweat in a vee down the chest—comes open button-by-button, baring flawless brown skin and a hard young body built just right. Shacklebolt is a tease with his trousers, opening them up just far enough to reveal that he hasn't anything on underneath. Then slipping his hand down inside, stroking himself as he lets them slide off his hips, showing off everything one would expect from such a fine figure of a man.

No real surprises, given that Alastor's been peeking through his clothes for half the session, starting just after Shacklebolt had caught his eye and loosened his collar. It's those eyes, though—flickering almost demurely down for just an instant—that have him fumbling for his own flies.

"C'mere."

Another smile and Shacklebolt is down on hands and knees, crawling right up to his lap like a half-tamed cat. What a sight. Alastor curls one hand around a strong jaw, gripping himself in the other and guiding Shacklebolt down.

He catches just a flicker of a pink tongue and warmth before those lips are parting for him.

His fists clench. One eye shuts tight as the other one begins to waver.

"Good..."

It's one hell of an understatement for the slow, wet slide of a mouth around him. The heat drawing forth a shiver, Shacklebolt's low hum of pleasure making his heart pound. His hand moves up to a smooth scalp, urging him down further with each hungry stroke, and God knows it might only be a case of feast after famine but Alastor would swear that he's never had it quite so good&amp;madshdeep and hot and steady, an expert touch that lingers over all the right places until his breath is run ragged and the tension in his loins is wound tight enough to snap.

His head tilts back, his eye spinning madly as the sensation swells up over him like a wave of lava. He sways for an instant, and Shacklebolt's sinful mouth follows, warm hands grasping firmly at his hips and then slyly untucking his shirt to slide up his back.

He feels his breath hitch as Shacklebolt takes him in even deeper, the barest flutter of a throat against the head of his cock, a feeling that seems to reach right up into his stomach and _twist._

The rhythm of it sweeps him up, a steady bob as that wet heat has its way with him, throwing him now and again with a little twist, a hum, the slither of a tongue.

"Bloody hell—"

Never mind the thought of how long Shacklebolt will let him fuck that luscious mouth of his. The question is how long he can last doing it.

He moans as the movement slows to what feels like a crawl, the suction gathering up tighter around him, and feels it rushing up hard and fast inside him.

"Swallow it..." His voice is little more than a croak.

Brown eyes open lazily, glancing up at him for an instant, just long enough for Alastor to swear that it's smugness he sees before they close once more. Then he stops thinking about anything but the hand on his cock moving in unison with Shacklebolt's mouth, and the other squirming down into his trousers, cupping his balls and gently squeezing.

He makes one last, futile clutch for his self-control, meaning to draw it out, meaning to make it last, make it worth it, and the nudge to Shacklebolt's shoulder is supposed to mean 'slow down.' But then that hand is reaching even lower, pressing behind his balls, and when he opens his mouth to speak all that comes out is a rough gasp.

His hips jerk, and he bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep silent as Shacklebolt holds his pleasure for ransom, pushing him closer and closer to the edge—grace and lust and power all wrapped up in one sleek body. The sounds of a lewdly sucking mouth echo throughout the hall, as wet and obscene as the heat that drags him under with unbelievable strength and drowns him dead.

A final suck has him shooting off good and hard, what feels like years' worth of frustration shuddering free, pulling him along behind it. His hands curl white-knuckle tight, unable to do anything but ride it out to the end, head filled with the sound of his own rasping breath as he peaks...drifts...and slowly comes down. He sighs when Shacklebolt lets him slip from between his lips.

That face appears quite satisfied for a moment, less so when Shacklebolt rocks back on his heels, still waiting for his share. He strokes himself idly as his laughing eyes meet Alastor's.

"Are you going to make me beg?"

Steady speech is still a moment out of reach, but it only takes a shake of Alastor's head to have Shacklebolt all but climbing on top of him. He gets his mouth on that long throat again, biting just a little, feeling the steady pulse jump under his tongue.

Shacklebolt's cock nudges against his belly, warm and sticky. He runs his hands down a broad back damp with sweat, finding himself with two handfuls of what's undoubtedly the finest backside he's ever seen. Shacklebolt moans softly, a sound so low that it nearly rumbles, and squirms in his arms.

He licks at the bite mark he's just left and then nuzzles his way to a silky-soft patch of skin at the bend of Shacklebolt's jaw, savouring the feel of it as he steals a moment to recover his breath. It tastes of salt, smooth and perfect, the little golden ring above, the thrumming beat of his pulse below.

A shove sends Shacklebolt tumbling back. Those cat-like reflexes save him as he catches himself on the more graceful side of a sprawl, the rare man who can look dignified with his bits out for all to see.

Alastor gives a faint twitch at the sudden chill down along his front, and the sight of Shacklebolt's eyes glazing over, his chest heaving, cock straining. He runs one finger lightly down the length of it, earning a breathless sound. He traces it with his fingertips, idly comparing it to his own, to others he's had—finding it measuring up quite nicely. His fist curls around it and slowly pumps, making Shacklebolt's hips come up like a shot.

He wets his lips. It's only fair to return the favour in full, after all. Or better. They'll see what becomes of all that calm.

He pushes Shacklebolt flat on his back, holding him there with one hand planted on his chest just long enough to make sure there aren't any ideas about moving. Then he's leaning down to steal a taste, his tongue trailing up the underside of Shacklebolt's cock. He takes his time, exploring in turn, reacquainting himself with the taste, tracing slow circles that prompt a lovely bit of squirming and moaning.

Where's that smugness now?

He holds down Shacklebolt's hips as he takes him in. Hot and silken on top of his tongue—vulnerable, so far as it's metaphorical miles from what anyone would call delicate. It isn't so different from the smooth skin at the crook of Shacklebolt's neck with its heavy pulse quickening under his attentions. The taste is a different sort of saltiness entirely, though, this one making the heat linger in his loins. He takes a little more before backing off and holding it in his hand again, stroking the swollen plum of a head with his thumb.

"_Fuck_."

The word trips off Shacklebolt's tongue, that mellow voice unravelling around the edges, music to his ears. He looks impossibly hard now, hot and pulsing in Alastor's hand, a fat drop of clear fluid dripping onto a taut belly.

Alastor licks him again, stroking, running his tongue over every inch he can reach, spurred on by the desperate little sounds Shacklebolt makes when he sucks right here, licks there, laps eagerly at the next salty drop.

"Oh, God—Moody?"

He hides a smirk, his tongue following the crease of a thigh.

"Moody..." A touch more insistently this time, and an unsteady hand groping for his shoulder.

Alastor hums, a non-committal sound, still licking.

"_Moody._"

Scowling, he nips hard at Shacklebolt's thigh. A fine spending he might have just had, but there's no call to think he can't work both his ears and mouth at once. "I'm not deaf, lad."

His words are slightly muffled against Shacklebolt's skin, stirring the rough little hairs there, and a hand closes over his own, trying to make his fist speed up.

Alastor frowns as he bats it away. It's his turn. He wraps his fingers around Shacklebolt's cock again, holding it firmly. "Say it."

A pause. "Faster?"

Just a hint of urgency makes itself known, but it's wholly satisfying.

Alastor eyes him. "Hm?"

Shacklebolt pushes himself up on his elbows, tension playing across his body. Those eyes meet him steadily though, as does his voice. Such a voice. "I want it faster."

"Do you, now?" He strokes him slow and steady.

Impossibly, Shacklebolt's voice goes down in pitch, so low and sweet that it makes the hair at the back of Alastor's neck stand up. "I want you to make me come."

"Well, now." Clever boy, playing to his strengths.

Alastor quickens the pace a little, squeezing tight with every stroke until he sees Shacklebolt's head tip back. Both eyes fix on the sight of his hand around Shacklebolt's cock as he hears deep breathing begin to fray. The smell of musk is so strong that he can nearly taste it on the back of his tongue. Can, when he slides his mouth back down.

"Fuck, Moody..."

Alastor's eye stays on Shacklebolt's face, watching as he bites down on his lip, looking feverish, looking drunk, looking young and delicious.

"Yes, yes—now." That deep voice nearly cracks, heat bubbling up from underneath.

No more teasing, no more tasting. Alastor takes his fill, feeling it bump up against the back of his throat. Pulling back, then dipping down again, deeper this time. Shacklebolt's hands tangle in his hair, urging him along to the sound of breathless whispers—deeper, faster, more—as he loses all care for gentleness. His fingers dig into hard thighs as he sucks him as thoroughly and eagerly as he knows how. Ravenous and rough, a twist on every stroke of his mouth, his tongue remembering just how to move, his hands where to touch.

He sees it coming, his eye nearly quivering in expectation as Shacklebolt's brow furrows, the lad's expression twisting up in pleasure so rapt that it looks more like pain. A gasp. The sweep of a tongue across a plump lower lip. The flex of the muscles in his stomach as he lifts his hips off the floor, and a chest shuddering with hitching breaths as he lets out a groan like bending iron, throbbing and spurting into Alastor's mouth.

Alastor doesn't ease up one jot, swallowing down the salty rush as he works him through the rest of it, demanding every drop as his due and sucking him until he's soft. Then he pushes himself back, sitting up and feeling the warmth settle palpably in his belly. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, getting the lion's share of smugness when it takes Shacklebolt two attempts to sit up. Dazed isn't such a bad look on the lad.

His eyes roam freely over all that naked skin as he leisurely considers whether Shacklebolt's learned all he came to, or if he might yet show up to next week's session. He watches the set of his shoulders and the bob of his Adam's apple for any hint.

"...Moody?"

"Hm?"

"Want to go for a pint?"

Alastor smacks his lips, considering. "You buying?"

Shacklebolt grins—an honest flash of white teeth and fearlessness. "Of course."

The corners of Alastor's mouth can't help but twitch in reply as he buttons himself back up, straightening his clothes into those of a man who hasn't been despoiling the hallowed halls of the Ministry. "I don't see why not."

He hauls himself up while Shacklebolt gathers up his clothes, and if there's a satisfyingly lazy lag to the young man's movements, he's equally pleased to see that those eyes are still sharp, that Shacklebolt never once turns his back on him. The return of that damnable little smile doesn't quite distract him from the discreet palming of a wand.

A short nod holds all the approval it needs to.

Shacklebolt rises smoothly to his feet, taking his flank as they cross the practice hall and let themselves out into the corridor, where signs of life are already returning to the office. Then, pausing on the threshold as though by mutual assent, they shut the door firmly behind them.


End file.
